


Backlash

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vogler is gone, and Chase is reaping what he has sown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backlash

It had been three weeks since Vogler was gone, and Chase couldn't take it anymore. The constant barbs that held more rancor than ever, the mindless tasks House gave him, the biting dismissal of his medical opinions. He felt like a kid all over again, getting the silent treatment from his father because he had been disobedient. And the worst was, he knew he deserved it. 'Disobedient' didn't even begin to cover it; 'disloyal' would be a more appropriate term.

In hindsight, he couldn't really remember how it had come to this. Couldn't imagine how he'd gone from defending House when even Cameron and Foreman thought their boss was out of line, how he'd gone from telling them 'I like the guy' and _meaning_ it to a dislike so intense that he'd headed straight to Vogler and kissed the fat bastard's ass.

And now he was reaping what he'd sown, wishing he could muster up the dislike again, because the cold dismissal might hurt less if he believed his actions had been justified. But the anger that drove him there had evaporated, leaving only the stale, bitter taste of hurt pride and the knowledge that he'd brought this on himself.

He remembered how House had asked him back at the height of his betrayal, 'How do you see this ending?' 

Now, he wanted to ask House the same question. Would House needle him and take delight in tormenting him until he eventually got bored and fired Chase? Or would he merely try and see how long it'd take until Chase would break down and cry? In that case, he wouldn't have to wait long anymore, Chase mused wearily. 

He was working late, for the third time this week and it was only Wednesday. Their latest case was just finished, the patient released into her husband's loving care, but there was still a report to write; and House had insisted that he'd get it done tonight. Cameron had the day off – 'What, another perk of your new contract?' Foreman had asked her – and Foreman had left a good two hours earlier… for a date no less. Chase had expected House to laugh in Foreman's face when he asked whether he could go, but House had just shrugged. 'Sure. Chase will stay and do the report.' 

Chase hadn't even bothered to argue. The last time he had – the _only_ time he'd dared to object, in fact, telling House that it was just _not fair_ – House had given a hearty laugh as if he'd been told a particularly saucy joke. Chase got it. 'Fair' was a term that didn't apply to him any longer.

So he didn't argue anymore. Just tried to deal with everything House dished out, stubbornly trying to prove to himself and House that he could take it. 

Except that he couldn't.

He took a deep breath and slipped into House's office. He didn't even know why House was still here, lounging in his chair with his feet up on the desk and playing on his game-boy when he could have been at home, doing… whatever House was doing after-hours. 

Chase walked over and stood in front of House's desk for what had to be at least three minutes before House finally acknowledged him. And even then, he didn't bother looking up. "Finished already? That was quick. It's only –" He quickly checked his watch before turning his attention back on the screen. "Nine thirty. Well, I'm in a good mood today. You may go home. Leave the report on my desk, I'll have a look at it tomorrow. Or at the end of the week. It's not all that urgent." Translation: I let you work late out of a whim, just so you know it. Not that Chase hadn't known, anyway.

"Can we talk?"

"I was under the impression that this was what we were doing. Unless you mean 'talk' as a euphemism for sex, in which case, no, we can't."

Chase closed his eyes and mentally counted down from ten, wondering if any judge would blame him if he just went and bashed House's head in with his cane.

Eventually, House looked up put his game-boy down with a resigned sigh. "You're still here." He scowled and leaned back in his chair, giving Chase a long, hard stare. "I suppose that means we're probably going to have the Talk, with a capital T. Fine, then. Talk."

"Does it really have to be like this?" Chase blurted out, realizing in the same moment how pathetic it sounded. He bit his lip.

He didn't need to wait long for the reprimand. "You have to be a bit more specific than that, Dr. Chase. What 'it' are you referring to, and what exactly do you mean when you say 'like this'?" 

House was good at this, Chase had to admit. Everything House said to Chase, whether it was an order or a question or a simple statement, no matter how banal or matter-of-fact, was spiked with a barely concealed barb. It felt like walking barefoot over a field of broken glass. 

"I just want things to be back to how they were before." It came out a lot whinier than he'd intended; and it left the door wide open for House to ask what 'before' was supposed to mean. Surprisingly, he didn't. That didn't mean that Chase liked his answer, though.

"Ah, yes." House offered him a smile that was every bit as fake as the plants in the reception hall. "But time is funny that way. It just _won't_ let you turn it back."

The mocking tone was too much for Chase to take. "It can't go on like that," he snapped, knowing he sounded way too arrogant for someone who was supposedly apologizing yet unable to hold back any longer. "Make up your mind. Forgive me or fire me. But don't do this!"

"You cannot order me to forgive you. That would eliminate the 'give' part in for _give_ ness. And I'm not going to fire you."

"Then I quit."

"Nope." House let the P pop off his lips noisily and smirked. He was obviously enjoying himself. "Sorry, you won't. You have a two-year contract and you're not getting out of it before the very last day of it is over, no matter how much you whine and plead and rage and flutter your pretty eyelashes at me. You lost the right to give up your job somewhere along the line. I wonder when that was… Perhaps around the time you sold me out to keep said job?"

It was a progression, Chase thought. Now they actually mentioned The Incident, instead of beating around the bush. Time to explain his side of things, perhaps. Except that his side of things wasn't very clear and confused him, so he had little hope that he could make anyone else understand. "That wasn't… I was upset. I had messed up and I knew it and I was afraid you'd fire me. But that wasn't the whole story." He took a deep breath. "I was pissed at you for sticking your nose into my business with my father." Of course, that wasn't the whole story either. But it was the part of it that made sense.

"And that, hot stuff, proves that petty revenge doesn't get you anywhere." House grinned. "It's fun, though, I give you that." He reached for the game-boy again. "Been nice chatting about the good old time. Now off you go. Did I mention that you were due an hour earlier tomorrow? " 

'What for?' Chase meant to ask, but settled for a defeated nod. He reminded himself that there was no point arguing, or trying to continue a conversation when House said it was over. 

He silently hoped to feel House's eyes burning into his back when he left, indicating that the other man was at least somewhat unsettled by the status quo. Instead, he heard the soft noises of House's computer game.

He hadn't thought that he could actually feel worse than he had a few minutes ago. It was almost fascinating how House continued to prove him wrong.

After the Talk – and really, Chase didn't think their conversation deserved the capitalization – he stopped expecting things to change. House had made it plain that he despised him and would do his best to make his life uncomfortable at least; and nothing Chase would said or do could change that. He had wondered a couple of times if he should just go and screw up to force the hospital to fire him. But they were doctors – when they screwed up, people died; and he wasn't willing to risk that. 

So he went to work and followed the orders House barked at him. Learned not to flinch at the taunts and to ignore the dull pain that settled in the pit of his stomach when House made some quip that had them smiling, only to freeze Chase's grin with an icy stare that silently called him an intruder, as if House meant to say, 'You have no right to laugh at my jokes.'

Chase functioned, but that was all he did. There had been a time when work had been fun and he'd enjoyed House's sarcasm, but that seemed like a distant memory and all he did now was hope that he'd make it though the day without any insult that went further than skin-deep.

One morning House limped to the white board, took a marker and started writing. "So. Red eyes, short attention span, perpetual bad mood. Differential diagnosis?"

He put down the pen and gave the three young doctors an expectant glance, almost absent-mindedly playing with the rubber ball in his free hand. Foreman frowned. "It could be anything. We need more data. How old's the patient?"

"Twenty-seven. So it's unlikely that the symptoms are merely down to old age. Keep it simple, though. Let's not assume the worst yet."

Cameron shrugged. "Lack of sleep?"

House's face contorted to a distasteful grimace. "How dull!" Foreman opened his mouth, but before he could offer his own, doubtlessly more exotic interpretation for the symptoms, House continued: "Likely, though." He threw the ball in the air twice and caught it, then suddenly tossed it over to Chase, who instinctively reached for it. Too slow, though. The ball made a soft noise as it fell down; and Chase moved to retrieve it unenthusiastically. He would have read something into the gesture – 'The ball's in your court,' and all that bullshit – if he hadn't been convinced that the operative was merely to watch Chase not catch it.

"The big question is," House went on, turning back to the board without a further glance at Chase. "Is it a symptom or the cause?" While the three of them contemplated the question, House added 'bad reflexes' to the list of symptoms. 

Chase groaned, and he swore he saw House smirking briefly. Back to humiliate Dr. Chase 1.01, then. 

"Look, I –" Chase began, but House silenced him with a hard look. 

"Symptom or cause?"

"Since you're asking like this, symptom," Foreman concluded, apparently oblivious to the exchange that had passed between House and Chase, or at least pretending to be. 

" _Very_ good, Dr. Foreman. What do you reckon could be the cause for his sleepless nights, then?"

Foreman blinked. "Er. Girlfriend keeping him up all night? Is there any point in this, or are you just bored?"

"Just bored. And no. If it was just his extensive, exhausting sexual activity, he'd be decidedly happier."

Chase rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, annoyed but too weary to stop the charade. He almost laughed at the absurdity of Foreman's next suggestion, however, only holding back because it would most likely piss House off even more. He didn't need to be told once again that he wasn't supposed to enjoy himself.

"Maybe he wants to break up with the girlfriend but doesn't know how to tell her."

House rolled his eyes. "Possible, but unlikely. What else could he be unhappy with?"

"His job?" offered Cameron.

"That sounds more like it. Maybe his working hours suck, or he finds the tasks he's given not interesting enough. Or his colleagues hate him. Or, of course, his boss is a jerk. Or all of those. Yeah, I can see why that would make a person unhappy enough to give him sleepless nights." House watched out of the corner of his eye how Cameron and Foreman exchanged a mildly worried look.

"Or maybe it has nothing to do with that," Chase interjected suddenly, and all eyes turned on him.

"Dr. Chase, I'm pleased that you have decided to join the discussion! And what, pray tell, is your conclusion for the cause of our poor patient's misery."

Chase held the piercing gaze steadily. "Guilt."

"An interesting theory. Wrong, however." He smiled grimly when Chase groaned and buried his face in his palms. "Regretting that you picked the losing side isn't the same as feeling guilty."

"I haven't been sleeping even before Vogler was out of the picture, back when the losing side was still the winning side. How does that fit into your diagnosis?" He threw the ball back at House, who caught it single-handed. Chase stood up and shoved his chair back, pushing past Foreman as he stormed out of the room.

House stood unruffled and looked at his two remaining doctors. "Now, wasn't that interesting?" He smiled and wrote 'temper tantrums' on the board.

Twelve hours later, when Chase returned, the hospital was deserted. He wasn't sure whether he should be surprised or not to find House still in his office. It seemed almost as if he had waited for Chase to show up.

House put down the magazine he was reading when Chase slinked in. "If that isn't our elusive patient! Back so soon? I thought you'd run off to drown yourself or something equally dramatic and pointless."

"I can't do this anymore."

"I have a vague sense of _déjà-vu_. Haven't we had this conversation before?" House asked, bored, and pretended to pick up his reading again. "What are you saying, exactly? That you can't work with me? Well, to quote someone we both know: 'You don't have a choice.'" 

Chase winced when House threw his words back at him, self-loathing struggling with self-pity. It wasn't clear which one would win, yet, but at that moment self-pity was rapidly gaining the upper hand. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, trying to fight the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. There had to be _something_ he could do.

House continued reading, deliberately dismissing Chase's desperation and keeping his voice light. "I don't know. A blow job would be nice."

Before he could think about what he was going to do, Chase stood and rounded House's desk. He stopped right in front of the older man, where he sunk to his knees in what he hoped would look graceful but was probably just exhausted. He reached for the zipper of House's pants with both hands, making a move to open it when thin, surprisingly strong fingers took told of his wrists and stopped him. 

"As much as I appreciate your utter lack of pride and your willingness to whore yourself out, you do realize that this was a joke, right?"

A joke. Right. 

Chase closed his eyes and let his head sink down until it rested on House's thigh. He could hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, drumming a soft soundtrack to the scene. His head felt hot; perhaps from the shame, perhaps from the warmth of the other man's skin radiating through the pants. His eyes were burning. He wondered if House would shove him off if he started crying through his pants. 

"Please," he muttered; and the sound was muffled by the cloth his face was pressing against.

"Are you asking for permission to blow me, or something else?" House's voice sounded carefully controlled. Even the trademark mock was missing.

There was a long pause. Oppressive silence, disrupted only by their breathing. Eventually, Chase looked up. "You're not going to trust me again, are you?" he asked, defeated.

"Ah, ah, ah. _That_ would imply that I ever trusted you to begin with."

"You did." A small, sad smile. "Otherwise you wouldn't be this mad at me."

"I'm not –"

Despite better knowledge, he interrupted House. "Yes, you are." He held the other man's gaze with tired eyes until House finally conceded in a soft voice: "Yes, I am." 

It was the first serious thing House had told him since this whole mess had begun. Perhaps it was the most serious thing he had ever heard House say; and he really didn't want to think about the implications of that: that House would abandon the mask of sarcasm he was hiding behind only to tell Chase that he'd trusted him and Chase had messed up. It made him want to cry and beg for forgiveness, even when he knew it would be pointless.

Instead, Chase nodded and stood with hunched shoulders, turning to leave when House spoke again. 

"I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"If the Mets will win, how to find a cure for AIDS, where I parked my car this morning. What do you think, you moron? Whether I will trust you again, of course." His tone softened somewhat. "Give it some time." 

Chase nodded numbly, oddly hopeful.

"And now go home and get some sleep. You look like shit."

* * *

The meeting was over, and House was on his way out of the room, shouting some final instructions over his shoulder. "Do the things, the, you know, blah blah blah blah blah, all that stuff the other docs did. If that's negative, ultrasound his belly. If that's negative, CT his abdomen and pelvis, with and without contrast. Did I miss anything?" 

"Kitchen sink?" Chase shot back, automatically, before remembering that he didn't banter with House. Not anymore. 

Just because House had stopped verbally kicking him in the balls every ten minutes didn't mean that he could stop being cautious. 

"Well, we could certainly give that a –"

Chase sat frozen when House interrupted himself and turned back around to look at him. There was a gleam in those blue eyes that Chase hadn't seen directed at him in months.

House smirked. "Oh, you minx!" He slipped out into his office and the door bounced shut behind him. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Chase smiled. 

Fin.


End file.
